“It was Cheveney!” he said slowly.
“Cheveney!” she repeated. “I do not know any one of that name.”
He caught her wrist and turned her face towards him. Her eyes were wide open with amazement.
“Mr. Ennison!”
He released her.
“Good God!” he exclaimed. “Who are you—Annabel Pellissier or her ghost?”
Anna laughed.
“If it is a choice between the two,” she answered, “I must be Annabel Pellissier. I am certainly no ghost.”
“You have her face and figure,” he muttered. “You have even her name. Yet you can look Cheveney in the face and declare that you do not know him. You have changed from the veriest butterfly to a woman—you wear different clothes, you have the air of another world. If you do not help me to read the riddle of yourself, Annabel, I think that very soon I shall be a candidate for the asylum.”